


Battlegrounds

by valderys



Category: Lost
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some battles you fight alone, and there are some you can hope to share…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battlegrounds

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004, just after I'd managed to find and watch a copy of the unaired pilot, and inspired almost entirely by the fact I thought Dom and Ian would be insanely pretty together :)

He watched him fight with his sister. Slyly, out of the corner of his eye. Openly, staring a little in pretend disgust. Blankly, as though they were a show put on for his special amusement. It wasn't hard. When they were arguing it was as though the rest of the world didn't exist, as though everything faded away to the few feet between them, the twisted and sniping insults, the turning away, the grabbing of an exposed arm, all part of a complicated dance, that only they knew the rules for. That was a good thing, Charlie thought, it meant they didn't think about the here and now, they didn't see the beach, and the wreckage, and they didn't feel the loneliness or the fear. It was a good survival mechanism, he thought, better than his own, and he refused to feel for the little bag in his pocket, or think about the slowly dwindling contents. He refused.

So he turned back to Boone and Shannon and watched the floor show. Watched them fight back the clawing dark even in the brightness of the day. Listened to them squabble until it became as high and meaningless a sound as the thin cries of gulls above the beach on a summer's day at Blackpool. He shivered, even in the sun, and drew up the hood of his sweatshirt. He didn't want to think about Blackpool, that he hadn't seen since he was a child; or Manchester, the home he visited sometimes but always left again with a nagging sense of relief, and a hollow in his bones, that he filled with bright lights, or another party, or the sting and rush of just one more hit. It was always grey and rained in a steady drizzle there, damp and cold. That's what he always remembered most about Manchester, the greyness. Not like here, with its bright tropical sun, and short sharp tropical storms that left you wet but not refreshed, and breathing air that was filled with water, warm and heavy in your mouth.

He shook his head a little and continued to watch. He didn't want to think about it. The greyness had never left him, even though it was years later and he was thousands of miles away. It was creeping into the corners of his eyes even now, like cobwebs, like rain. He refused to see it, refused to taste the greyness coating his tongue like metal, and stared instead at Boone and Shannon, their voices raised, blocking the dark, blocking the grey, and he hung on to that and clenched his hands into fists and thought, I can wait, I can do this. They were dark and light themselves, the pair of them, children of the sun, he bet. Privileged. Spoilt. But beautiful, with their clear skin and finely moulded faces. What would they know about real life, about a damp semi in Stockport, a single mum with too many kids and not enough money, living off child support and charity shops? He bit his lip and flexed his fingers, feeling the plasters pull at his skin, little reminders of reality. Fate he had written on them this time. It seemed appropriate.

Boone was marching after Shannon now, and Charlie wondered if he'd have to move to keep them in sight, and then wondered if they'd notice, or if anyone would. He knew intellectually that people didn't care, that they had their own problems, their own miseries, but the habit of dissembling was hard to break. There had been so many years of it. Staring when he shouldn't in changing rooms at school, losing himself to the music when he could, hiding in plain sight from the fans, fooling his mates, the band, their manager, everyone who mattered, into thinking he was fine, when really, the greyness was winning, a little more each day. Creeping up over his body like a tide, inexorable, and inevitable, and when it filled his mouth, well, then he would stop. Just stop. There were only a few things that held it back, he'd found, and one of them was sitting in his pocket, and one of them was standing there arguing with his sister…

He fingered the baggie through his jeans, massaging his leg, and then impatiently took his hand away. The material felt gritty, from sand and salt, and his eyes felt gritty too, so he rubbed them and blinked away the grey that lapped at their edges, and watched the fine bones of his entertainment contort in disgust. He licked his lips as he imagined Boone's face contorted for a different reason, and images from a hundred cheap hotels flickered at the edges of his mind, pale flesh and pale passion, and paler vodka, washing it all down. He'd had his pick on tour, once that first album was a hit. Girls of course, offering themselves like cheap meat, but boys too, and those he'd hidden, like secrets, although he supposed no-one much was fooled. But that was the point, wasn't it? He must remember. People didn't really care.

He thought of those first few gigs in the backs of pubs and ratty working men's clubs, and the occasional sweaty encounters afterwards, against a wall or toilet cubicle, with the smell of stale smoke making him feel dizzy, and the stink of bleach catching the back of his throat. It pushed the grey away, a little, didn't it? Hot sweet absence of thought. Oh yes. And then later, there were others. Fame brought a better class of fuck, it seemed, at least. Charlie let his eyes wander down from the surly frowning face to linger a little on the open shirt, flat stomach and tightly muscled legs. He'd had better. On tour. But not much.

Dark and light. Shannon was all golden and sunkissed, her face pouting and yet somehow transparent. Attractive but not really his type, Charlie thought. He doubted she was as strong as she seemed. Denial. Not just a river. But Boone now… He had a wildness to him that made Charlie grip his knees as he watched, and his palms were clammy, as he imagined the pull and flex of muscle under his hands. He needed that, needed strength. Something to fight against, something to remind him that he was alive and feeling, that he wasn't going to sink into the grey and drown, smothering in feathers, choking in fog. And darkness was always more attractive, after all. Fatally so. He stared at them arguing and knew he wanted more than this. That his imagination would only keep him going for so long. That he couldn't keep it all away on his own. But that was the trouble, wasn't it? He always wanted more. Needed it, like a never ending party or that last note of music that holds forever, needed it like breathing, and the craving bit at him then, like a particularly rabid dog, until he gasped silently and gnawed his cheek.

Come and fight me, he thought, as he watched them, as he hunched up on the sand with his hood over his ears, feeling nauseous, feeling sick. I need you more than she does.

Come and fight me.


End file.
